


Noir

by Kettugasm



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kettugasm/pseuds/Kettugasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate timeline in American history, where humans and Alternians live side-by-side. One man is caught up in the middle of it all, scarred by the never-ending struggle that is life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Noir

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Something in the Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/331226) by [DevilishKurumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilishKurumi/pseuds/DevilishKurumi). 



> [[ okay, so, a good friend of mine, DevilishKurumi, has been writing these AMAZING 50sstuck ficlets, and I highly recommend you go read them. Inspired by her work, I’ve began to write for the Midnight Crew set in this universe. For more information about the overall plot, PLEASE consult her fics. Because, they’re awesome ]]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend lost in a violent time, a man unable to cope with the changes in the world, his rage manifesting in a bright splash of purple. He never felt like he belonged here, the city that belonged to him, the city the Alternian trolls had slowly begun to take for their own.

Your name is Spades Slick, and you’re getting pretty fucking irritated at the two standing in front of you. Normally, you get along smashingly with them, but tonight… things are just off their rocker. You can’t recall a time when Droog was ever this upset, this angry, Hell, showing this much emotion. He’s usually as cool as a cucumber, so you know, inwardly, things have gotten really bad. And just seeing that look on Heart’s face, you had no idea the big lug even had the ability to cry.

But they don’t understand. Shit, you know they do, but then, they really don’t.  
  
They were there, yeah, there’s no doubt about it. The dark, dingy funeral, the rain that just didn’t seem to stop, the stark memories of putting your little buddy into the ground that day. Deuce was always a good kid, but he just couldn’t help but get mixed up in the likes of you and the others. He was a great guy, maybe a little soft in the head, a little naiive, but he never deserved that fate.  
  
That’s why you hate them so much, those fucking gray-skinned hellions.  
  
While he had every right to be apart of that fight, he had stayed back, out of the fray, beady little eyes watching from behind an old trashcan. You didn’t start it, none of you did, but you were damn well determined to finish it all.  
  
At least, you were.  
  
To this day, you still don’t understand why it was him. Of all four of you, why was Deuce the one? To make the sting of it all worse, there wasn’t anything you could have done. You were on the other goddamn side of town. You know it wasn’t your fault, but you still have guilt that flares up like your ulcer.  
  
The coppers had said Deuce had been just coming out of that candy shoppe that just opened across the street from that… diner… He’d just got all the goods, all the candies you and the Crew loved. He was always such a considerate little bastard.  
  
Those monsters saw him, followed him, hopped the goddamn curb and crushed him under their tires. They told you he’d died instantly, but you knew better. You hate trolls, you find them repulsive, but not unintelligent. You knew they made sure the last moments of his life were filled with agony. You know he was trapped. Trapped under their tires, trapped in a tiny, broken, smashed body. All he’d wanted was to get home to see you and the boys, to bring you candy, but those gray sons of bitches weren’t going to let that happen.  
  
You remember that night more clearly than anything else. For the first time in your life, you recall being disgusted by the act of murder, never did you think stabbing something would cause such distress. You remember this was the first time you saw troll blood, felt it slipping through your fingers. They had said trolls had different color blood, some kind of fucked up biology, but you never believed it. Not until that night.  There was a bit of orange, a splash of green here and there, you can remember the colors so vividly. The shade you remeber most, and will never forget is purple. Fuckin’ purple blood, staining your suit. It faded, but never washed out, you recall burning it just to get rid of it.  
  
You still can’t recall how, but you made it back to the fresh little plot, hands slathered across the tombstone, a sick sort of rainbow smeared over the stone. You got them, even stevens. You made everything all right again, and eye for an eye, Deuce.  
  
Eye for an eye…  
  
Droog’s voice is a bitter-sharp bite as he barks your name, your thoughts from the past snapping away as you turn back to him. He looks worried, and all you can do is shake your head. For the life of you, you can’t figure out what you ever did to the trolls to make them take so many things away from you, why you were dealt this hand in life. You raise one hand up, placing it over your eye, or what’s left of it. That purple-blooded motherfucker took your eye, jabbed his gray thumb right into the socket. Purple. _PURPLE GODDAMN BLOOD_. Just like one of those FUCKERS that killed Deuce.  
  
Droog has long-sinced stopped talking, now he’s just staring at you. You’re not really sure where Heart’s has gone, but none of that matters now. A hand places itself on your shoulder, patting you, a voice trying to reassure you that everything will be alright. You can’t bring yourself to speak, even if you want so much to thank him for his concern, his words. These two are the closest thing you have to a family, and they’re the only ones left.  
  
You wish you could say something back to Droog, but he’s already starting to walk off. You don’t feel like a coward as you keep silent, but you just feel really fucking empty, your heart sinking into your gut. Part of you wants to just forget all of this, to just back up and leave the city. Your damn city. You can hear Deuce’s voice tinkering in the back of your head, telling you to “live and let live, boss. Ain’t nothin’ good can come from fightin’ like dis. Only dummies would keep it up like dis.”  
  
But life isn’t that simple to someone still alive.  
  
You make your way to your room, rifling through your things, searching through your closet until you find the garment bag tucked far, far back in the corner. You haven’t seen this suit in ages, the fashion so very much out of style. But you don’t care as you put it on, your halved vision making the task more difficult than you thought it would be, but finally it’s on. You stand in front of the mirrors, looking over yourself, barely recognizing the man staring back at you. He looks more like a bad dream than your reflection.  
  
Good.  
  
Your name is Jack Noir, and the only thing you can think of is how to make Eridan Ampora suffer.


	2. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The color reminded him of many things: the tiny funeral, the car, the empty pit in his stomach. But when he saw that color, all he could think about was his ever-consuming anger and the thud of the knife as it pierced gray flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[ Holy motherfucking trigger warning. This fic is really fucked up, though thankfully it’s just GORE rather than GURO. I had this idea, this MESSED UP idea for a fic, and I finally got around to writing it. Be FOREWARNED THOUGH. There’s gore and death, and lots of fucked up shit… ]]

Your name is Spa-… Jack Noir.  
  
And you’re not even sure about reality anymore.  
  
Things have gotten so bad, so quickly, and you’re starting to feel your grip on sanity slip out of your hands. But you can’t stop, you know there’s no way to go back. Not after what you’ve already done, not after what you’re about to do.   
The troll in front of you has long since stopped struggling, and he’s now glaring silently at you. The past half an hour, you’re honestly having trouble remembering what happened. All you know is that you’re trying to ignore the shallow stab wound in your chest. How did that even happen, you question silently to yourself? You know it’s not lethal, because you don’t feel like you’re dying. You don’t even feel much pain. Your hand on the troll’s neck, pinning him against the wall at his back, tightens just enough. Even with one eye, in the dark alley, you can still see the faint purple bruises on his gray skin, his neck victim to repeated strangling.   
  
You must have been choking the poor bastard over and over again, only releasing your grip when he’s about to pass out. That must be the case, because he’s breathing so hard, gasping for air every now and then. You stare into his eyes, and he stares back at you, contempt plain on his face. There’s a certain kind of energy sparking between the both of you, a primal instinct. Words and humanity really have no place in this scuffle.  
  
As you look back at him, your hand tightens once more, and he lets out a cry that sounds almost like the sound of a dolphin in agony, but the noise is cut off as you block his airways once again. That’s when the tears start. You saw them pricking at the corners of his eyes before, and now they’re flowing freely. Twin, purple waterfalls caressing down his cheeks, sliding off his face and pelting the ground. It’s as though he finally realizes just what’s going to happen to him.  
  
He knows he’s going to die.  
  
And as much fun as you thought you were going to have killing him, you just feel kind of… sorry for him now. He’s pathetic, lower than the dirt under your shoe. You can’t understand why such creatures would even want equality. Finally, you pull your hand back and he gulps for air like a fish out of water. He looks ready to collapse down onto the ground, your hand having been the only support, but you hold him back up. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out your favorite blade, flicking it open before him. He sees, and you’re damn glad he does. You want him to see, you want him to watch.  
  
It’s a fluid motion, your hand jabbing forwards. The sound is meaty, as usual, the thud of your fist against his abdomen, the sick sound of the blade piercing his skin. You feel the warm, wetness of his blood flooding out onto your hand.   
  
It’s all over you, his blood, purple, just like the color from your past, the color that you never forgot. You look down to watch the blood cascade out from the knife wound, staring at it, your hands starting to shake as you feel the violet caressing down your palms. You’re feeling a surge of emotions for the first time in hours, days maybe, all sorts of unpleasant shit seeping back into your mind.  
  
Purple blood. Just like him. That troll, that FUCKING troll that killed Deuce.  
  
He… he looked a little like this asshole. You don’t quite know why, but there’s something else besides the blood color. Something else makes you think of the fucker that stole your little buddy away from you. When you look back up at him, at his face, you finally see why.  
  
Fins. Not many trolls have them, but you’ll NEVER forget. That bastard had fins, just like this. You don’t know if they are related or not, and frankly don’t care. All you know is that there’s going to be one less fish fuck out there.   
  
You wait, wait for him to die, but it’s too slow, too many gurgling, gasping noises, it’s starting to make you pretty unsettled. His arms shoot forwards, grabbing onto your shoulders, before you feel one of his hands reaching up and grabbing a weak fistful of your hair, trying to rip some out, but you know he has not the strength to do so. You glare into his face, but recoil just a bit, he looks as though he’s about to vomit. Which he does, in a way, a blast of purple blood splashing onto your face from his mouth, a guttural coughing noise coming from the troll.  
  
It’s ALL over you now, the purple, caressing down your cheeks, a bit of it sliding into your mouth. You feel absolutely disgusting. And that’s when you lose control. You clench your hand around the wet handle of your blade and pull it swiftly out from his gut, only to stab it back in, making another wound. And another. And another. But you know he’s not dead yet. Your hands quivering, you slam the blade into his side, all the way until you can feel the tip meet the bloody brick behind him. You can’t stop yourself, cutting through the skin, organs, muscle, even bone.   
  
You cut that son of a bitch in half.  
  
And it’s messy as fuck, quite possibly the most unclean murder you’ve ever committed. You want nothing more than you tear the rest of him apart, but there’s so much purple, it’s driving you up a wall. You’re not sure why, but an unfamiliar noise leaves your lips as you watch the troll’s lower half slowly slide down to the filthy ground, stopped by a few hanging entrails. His lower body, severed from his torso, gives the occasional twitch, legs kicking out here and there.  
  
You’re still holding onto his body, a tight hold on his shoulders as he gulps even more like a fish struggling to breathe oxygen, blood bubbling out from his lips, dripping down what’s left of his torso. You wait, wait once more for him to die, but he doesn’t.   
  
It’s terrifying now, holding onto and watching this… thing, dying in your grasp, dying a death that really no one should ever have to suffer, not even a troll. But there’s no way you can take this back. Instead, you stare into those horrified eyes for a few final moments before you run the blade through his chest, effectively pinning him to the wall behind him. He gives a few more shudders, a couple of sad, sobbing noises, then he goes quiet and limp.  
  
You don’t even have  the courage to look back at him, but you know he’s gone.  
  
Slowly, you stumble your way out of the alleyway, walking down the dark, empty streets back to your headquarters. Everything’s such a blur, and all you can smell is that bizarre blood all over you. You can even taste some of it. As soon as you return to what you call home, you burst through the doors. No one greets you, no one knows you’re back, no one’s even there. Good, that’s good.  
  
Struggling, you make it more than halfway up the stairs before you collapse. You didn’t realize it until just now, but the wound in your chest is a lot worse than you previously thought. What you thought was the troll’s blood getting on your suit was actually your own. Well, fuck, you know this isn’t too good.  
  
You can’t find the strength to stand, or really even the will to do so. Your own blood starts to trickle down the steps, mixing in with the purple as you go still. You managed to get nearly to the top, your single eye focusing on the very last step. You cough, spitting up some of your own blood, hacking hard as you start to fade in and out of consciousness.  
  
The last thing you remember hearing is a soft, rhythmic click. At first, you think it might be a goddamn clock, but even in this state, you know exactly what that sound is. Your weak vision catches the pair of high heels, the slim ankles just above them. You’re barely able to smell the smoke from her cigarette as she looks down at you. You can’t see her face, and as much as you hate her, you really wish you could see it just once more. But at least the last thing you can hear is her voice, calling your name.  
  
But you can’t even respond.  
  
Your name is Spades Slick, and your entire world goes as black as your soul.


End file.
